Bloodshed
by wolfergirl
Summary: AU. People react to grief in different ways. Some, like Jim, turn to alcohol. Some, like Kate, turn to work. But some, like Richard Castle, turn to revenge... Post-Watershed. WARNING: this is not a happy, fluffy, adorable fic. Character death.
1. Chapter 1

**I wrote this immediately after watching the season finale. Because I enjoy making characters suffer.**

**I don't own anything you recognise.**

* * *

There she was. His target. Making her way to the swings. A movement in his peripheral vision distracted him, and he cursed as his footing slipped, sending rocks clattering to the concrete beneath. It was the writer. Of course it was the writer.

He watched as they talked, as they both took a seat, as they faced each other with stormy expressions. Good, an argument. What better way to mask what he was about to do? He saw the writer hold up a hand and stop her interrupting him.

Time to get ready. Out came the metal, bit by bit, each end connected to another as he built his weapon, the movements rapid with familiarity as he placed the finished article at his feet.

Ready.

He stole a glance at the pair. Still talking. Good. He had time to execute it well, to make it a job to be proud of: not like before. He would prove to the Boss that he was competent. Crosshairs aligned. Target sighted.

Aim.

Finger curled round the trigger, elbows tucked in, knees planted firmly. Breathe in, breathe out, check sights. The mantra cycled menacingly round his head, pounding and beating a rhythm to match his adrenaline-fueled heart as it battered the inside of his chest without remorse or regard for the fragility of his shell.

Fire.

* * *

"Katherine Houghton Beckett, will you marry me?" The words took a moment to process, halting the tears on her cheeks. His gaze was burning into hers and pierced her soul with the pure, unadulterated fear she saw reflected. She swallowed.

"Castle, I-" her answer caught in her throat. She swallowed again and ran the back of her hand across her eyes to dispel the water collecting there. She drew in a deep breath to calm the tremors that had broken out across her hunched shoulders. Trepidation seeped out of the man in front of her, and she was loath to disturb the serious air between them with the wrong answer. His unwavering attention was fixed on her as she opened her mouth to deliver their sentence.

"Cas-"

Before she could finish, she was down. Her lover's name had been completed by a bang.

Gone.

* * *

**Will be continued - tis a work in progress...**

**Yeah.**

**Have a great weekend**

**~wolfergirl**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to all of you who reviewed, favourited and followed, and who wanted me to continue.**

**Huge thanks to Prim-Rue94 for letting me send this to her for her opinion, and for telling me to cut the description :P Also thanks to Vicky who puts up with my constant whining about everything :P**

**I don't own anything you recognise.**

* * *

_Beep._

Warm air on her face, prickles on her arms as thin needles invade the pale skin that has protected her for so long, thumping in her head as blood pulses around her body in an effort to save her.

_Beep._

Twitching, lolling, flopping; that's all he can see. Her head lies lifeless on the stretcher, cherry red lips sheltered by the skeleton of an oxygen mask, eyes fluttering as her energy wanes.

_Beep._

She can't breathe. Her chest is constricting, her throat is swelling, her eyes won't open, her fingers won't move, she can't move, she can't get out of her attacker's grasp, she can't move, she can't save Castle.

Save Castle. Save Castle.

That's all she can hear.

The shot ricocheting through the bone that shields her fragile thoughts barely dents the echoing phrase as it drums into her mind, her body, her soul.

Save Castle.

_Beep._

Save Castle.

_Beep._

Save. Castle.

* * *

He sits there. His hands are covered in blood that is not his, bright scarlet against the dull grey of the hospital floor, sticky and congealed and everywhere all at once – except the one place it should be.

He stifles a whimper with the back of a bloody hand. His eyes simmer with terror and hope and pain and love. He can't lose her. Not now, not after everything they've been through. Not now.

A succession of quick, high-pitched beeps startles him and his head jerks up, searching for the threat that has not quite left them, even here in this place of sanctuary.

He finds nothing, only the welcome loneliness of his memories as the shrill shriek fades like the life of the woman he is waiting for.

Waiting. Always waiting.

* * *

They get the call just as they are leaving the precinct. It takes several goes for Castle to get the whole story out: but the words 'shooting', 'Beckett', and 'hospital', are enough to get them pelting towards a car and switching on the sirens – protocol be damned.

Not again, races through both Ryan and Esposito's minds. There is no doubt that it was another attempt by Bracken to take their friend's life.

"Call CSU, canvas the scene. Keep everyone out of there. That son-of-a-bitch is mine," Esposito snaps down the line, freezing the rookie on the other end with the venom laced into the sharp tone. Ryan jiggles nervously next to him, checking his phone constantly for any updates from Castle, only to be met with a blank screen and silence.

They crash through the automatic doors of the ER and are greeted by the sight of a lone figure sits, head cradled in painted palms, oblivious to the concerned stares of the men hovering above. Kevin sits down next to him, the cold, hard plastic digging into his back and he adjusts slightly, elbows on knees, peering up into his friend's sweating face.

"Castle?" he prompts gently. When there is no reply he looks up at Javi, who crouches down and taps Castle's foot with a finger.

"Yo, Castle," the Hispanic detective murmurs. "You ok?" There is a whimper. "Beckett in surgery?" A nod. It's obvious that's all they're going to get. With a sigh, Javi eases himself into his own chair and they wait.

* * *

"Family of Kate Beckett?" The question splits the silence, and in unison they all look up to see a serious looking man eyeing them from the top of a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Castle stands up, the movement jerky and uncoordinated and stumbles towards him, clutching at the air around him as he dives into the realm of answers and relief and knowing.

The doctor doesn't ask for confirmation of his exact relationship with her – the gaunt, worry-filled eyes telling the story of the bond between the victim and the survivor. To him, that's all they are. Another couple, torn apart by a single moment, unsure whether they'll get out of the niche of hospitals and therapy and nightmares.

But they've been here before. They can do this, and this time, they'll be a team, side by side, doing what they do best – partners, in all sense of the word.

Castle is led through to a sterile white room, complete with bleeping machines and folded corners, directed to the plush armchair beside the bed. He opens his mouth to speak, only to close it again when he catches sight of her pale, limp body, swaddled in crisp sheets, wires and tubes and _things_ attached to her that make her look innocent and untroubled. He tries again.

"How is she?" he croaks. He is sent a solemn look, at which he flinches slightly and returns to studying her still form.

The doctor begins his explanation and Castle tunes the long, medical words out as he fixes his blank stare on the far wall – only to refocus suddenly as he registers an alarmingly familiar phrase from the hours of research for his books.

"Hemiplegic? As in, paralysed?" he stutters. The nod confirms it. A sympathetic paw is placed on his arm and he takes a deep breath. "How bad?" Mild annoyance flashes in the doctor's eyes – perhaps, Castle contemplates fleetingly, he has already explained Kate's exact condition.

"The bullet hit her left temporal lobe," the doctor continues. "Usually it's a fatal injury, but she's a lucky one. As I said, we suspect she'll be paralysed on the right hand side, and as the temporal lobe-"

"-is responsible for communication, comprehension and memory, she is likely to experience impairment in those areas," Castle completes dully. The doctor's eyebrows rise slightly in surprise.

"The left side is responsible for mentally identifying objects and processing words or thoughts linked to those objects. It also influences emotional stability and memory retention. Because of this, it is likely she will have difficulty linking memories to people, as well as difficulties in expressing herself through speech. If she recovers to the point that she can process her emotions, her moods will probably be inconsistent or unpredictable."

All Castle can think of is 'If she recovers'. Not when, _if_. And that terrifies him.

The other man sighs. "Patients with injuries like this often retreat into clinical depression. If she ever gets out of here, the likelihood is that she will need full-time care. It's best to start looking into options-"

"No."

The doctor pauses mid-flow. "Excuse me?"

"No." The reiteration is stronger this time, more assertive. The doctor shifts his weight from one foot to the other – never, in all his time in the department has someone interrupted him. "No – I can't – I won't – Kate won't need _options_. You don't know her. She's strong. She's determined. She's going to get better, and go back to work, and still be the best damn homicide detective in the 12th, and we're going to get married, and, and, and – and she won't need options because she's my Kate-" Rick was sobbing now. Sobs that wracked his body with emotion he had been too scared to reveal before – but now, the magnitude of the situation had set in and seeing her lying in that bed while they talked about _options_ and _full-time care_ didn't seem right without her involved in the discussion. He just hadn't realised she wouldn't be involved in anything much for a while.

And it breaks him.

* * *

**Thoughts?**


	3. Chapter 3

**With thanks to the reviewers, followers and favouriters.**

**With humungous thanks to Prim-Rue94 and theriseofthestorm (Tumblr) for sort-of-betaing and telling me to change stuff or generally squealing or threatening to kill me etc. etc. **

**For Seb; my Googlemouth, my brother, and who shows that grades don't measure intelligence.**

**I don't own anything you recognise.**

* * *

The creak of the door disturbs Castle's vigil and he hears a figure stagger into the room.

"Katie?" Jim Beckett almost shouts, falling forward to lean heavily on the bed, eyes travelling up and down her body to check for damage, face haggard and full of panic. "Katie." It is a sigh of resigned relief that leaves him as he collapses to the floor, kneeling next to her head and staring yearningly at her as though sheer willpower will make her wake up. He runs a finger down her cheek, haltingly shifting it when it hits the ventilator. She is still.

Castle tears his gaze from her for the first time since the doctor left and watches the father in front of him cradle his daughter's hand in his own. The pain in his stance is too much to bear – the pure pain of seeing his child like this, and Castle immediately feels guilty for intruding on such a precious moment.

He can only imagine how it feels.

With shaking legs he stands and quietly leaves the room with a silent  
promise to Kate to return.

* * *

As Jim lifts himself slowly into the chair, his grip on her hand never breaks. His thumb rubs over the small scar by her wrist, where a cooking experiment with her mother had gone wrong, and the memories flood back in a tidal wave of despair.

Her mother.

That was when everything had gone downhill for their family.

Suddenly, their perfect, loving, funny bubble had been burst by the real world: the world of hate and violence.

Suddenly, their cornerstone had been gone, demolishing the foundations of their lives.

Suddenly, he and Katie had had to grow up far too quickly, too unexpectedly. The responsibilities he had been able to shirk (or at least shoulder onto Johanna) had become solely his, pressing onto him like a relentless burden of provision, care and duty. Alone.

And Katie: she had had to become a self-sufficient woman by herself. He hadn't been any help to her, instead finding solace in a bottle, shattering and stoppering the pain her death had brought him. His daughter, the gem of his life, had been left to the demons of the real world with no one by her side.

Until Castle.

God, how she had needed Castle. How they had both needed him. The light that had shone in Katie's eyes at the mere mention of the writer had been enough for Jim to be singing his praises without even having met the man. Instantly, there was a pillar for her to lean on. Someone for her to (eventually) split her problems with. And Jim could live in the knowledge that whatever happened, she would be cared for.

Damn the Beckett Stubborn Streak.

If only she hadn't gone fishing for information. If only she hadn't been her mother's child.

Jim laughs, the sound devoid of humour, before it turns into the splutter of a man who has been too overcome with worry to eat or drink.

He wonders what Katie would think if she were to wake up and find him here. Would she tell him, in that manner that is all Johanna's, that she was fine? Or would she react like the last time she was shot (oh, he hates how that statement is valid for her) and cling on to him desperately, just as he is clinging on to her now?

With a sigh, Jim settles back for the night, drawing his coat over his legs, shifting his elbows to the arms of the seat, finally letting her hand flop back to rest beside her, as he will in a few short moments.

* * *

"Dad?" Alexis turns the corner to find her father pacing back and forth in front of the room that is obviously Kate's. He pauses at the sound of his name and she reaches out to him, clasping his elbow to guide him to the side of the corridor. "How is she?"

The inquiry, murmured as it is, is too much for Castle. He shakes his head, mutterings reaching her in the form of pleas to a God they're not sure exists, fingers drumming an erratic pattern on his thighs as he bends, bracing himself as his body heaves with whimpers.

She wraps him in an embrace that is so familiar it is all he needs just to collapse into her and weep. She soothes him with gentle crooning, as though he is a child who has lost a balloon – the item of pleasure for a length of time that has vanished suddenly, leaving him inconsolable and friendless. It's what he needs. The child-like need for comfort, for a demonstration of love, for someone to hold him dominates his instinct to be in the opposite role of the comforting parent.

* * *

Martha and Alexis finally get him home, leading him through the door and to the couch where he folds in on himself and stares, unseeing, at the ceiling.

They watch him. He is a pale shell of the joyful man they are used to seeing, and it scares them.

For Martha, her son has never been this distant, this unwilling to talk to her.

For Alexis, it is a side to him that she can only link to Beckett. Last time he had been this way it was the detective's blatant disregard for her dad's existence, creating a bigger void between the two of them because of a refusal to call - but this time, she can't find anyone to blame.

"What did the doctor say?" Martha asks gently. Castle starts.

"Paralysed. Emotionally unstable - so, normal Beckett." He snorts. It sounds childish, and he can see Alexis recoil at the sneer in his voice as he spits her name, and his bitterness is so much of a surprise to him that he half wonders if he meant to say that.

"It's not her fault, Dad," Alexis can't help but point out quietly.

Castle's jaw clenches. It is her fault, he irrationally argues. If she hadn't been so driven to hunt her mother's killer then she wouldn't have been shot - again. And if she hadn't been so bloody determined to _talk_ then they wouldn't have been on the swings.

He idly rubs the back of his hand.

His common sense is telling him that actually, it wasn't Kate who reopened her mother's case. It wasn't Kate who dredged up the past. Ultimately, it wasn't Kate who had failed to protect herself.

It was him.

It was his fault.

* * *

The boys' drive back to the precinct is silent, bar the _tap-tap_ of Ryan's fingers on the window. They get to their desks to find Lanie hovering anxiously, cell clutched in her hand and relieved scowl on her face as they approach.

"Javier Esposito," she hisses, slapping him in the chest. "Where the hell have you been? And you, Ryan. And where's Beckett?"

Her name is enough. Lanie's eyes widen as they both collapse into their chairs, head in hands, trying and failing to stop the trembling.

Gates joins them and Javi feels a surge of rebellion. This is the woman that made them close the case after Montgomery's death. What was she doing in a place none of them wanted her - in their little group, as they struggled on without their leader? Her words shock him straight through and it is only the identical look of confusion on Kevin's face that assures him he heard correctly.

"I would have thought you'd be at the scene," Victoria Gates eyes them over her glasses. "Rather than feeling sorry for yourselves." At any other time Javier would bristle at the insult to his pride, but any time that is offered to hunt for the person who shot his surrogate sister is more important. Without a word he is striding towards the elevator, not waiting for Kevin to join him as he hears the captain answer his partner.

"This is different to last time. There may be evidence. As long as you find a lead, I don't care what you do, as long as you find that sniper. And yes: Mr Castle is welcome to stay."

* * *

The shrill ringing of his phone makes all three of them jump. With fumbling fingers, Castle prods the answer button and holds it up to his ear, eyes closed as if 'see no evil, hear no evil', can be true for one second.

"Castle," he rasps.

"Hey, it's Ryan. We've got something." The excitement in the Irish detective's voice is easy to hear, and Castle wonders whether it could be contagious, just for that day, so he could feel slightly more optimistic.

"The sniper left prints," Ryan continues, and Castle is out of his seat like a rocket, propelling himself out the door and down the stairs without a second thought. "We'll meet you at the Twelfth." Castle nods down the line and releases a dark grin in the direction of a passing woman.

Maybe this time they'd find him.

* * *

Castle strides through the hospital, flashes of his old self reappearing as he rushes to tell Kate about the discovery. As he gets to the door, he pauses, before opening it a smidgen and checking to see if Jim is still there - he's not sure it's appropriate to be so blatantly happy about finding a lead on who shot his daughter and killed his wife.

Mr Beckett isn't there, although the jacket on the back of the chair promises his inevitable return. Castle slows his pace as he nears her bedside and for a moment, he just watches her, the smooth rise and fall of her chest feeling like the only continuum in his life.

Minutes pass, and he forgets why he came to see her, so intent is he on detailing every aspect of her form. He jumps when a voice invades his concentration, only to see the sympathetic glance of a nurse as she extends a clear plastic bag towards him.

"Detective Beckett's belongings, sir. We found them on her when she was brought in." He accepts the bag and clenches it in his fist, feeling tears prick the back of his eyes. The cold outline of her mother's ring beams out at him and he carefully slits the plastic to pull it out. He holds it, dangling, from one hand and inspects the piece of jewellery he has seen on her so many times - for the life she lost.

"We've got a lead, Kate." His voice is rough and gravelly, grating on his throat like sandpaper. "He left fingerprints behind. We'll get him. I promise you, Kate, we'll get the bastard who did this. I promise. Just - don't you die on me, you hear? I'm not turning that engagement ring into a mourning ring. You're going to be awake to arrest him, and you're going to be there when's he's sentenced to life. You have no choice. You're going to be there. I've got to go now, beautiful. I'll let you know what we find. Stay strong, Kate." Castle closes his eyes briefly to get his quivering breathing under control, then takes the spinning ring and lays it on the table by the bed, watching it as the chain settles in a wave of gold - a never-ending circle of love and hope.

He stands and bends to kiss her forehead. It's cold. As he turns away he subconsciously wets his lips against the dryness of her skin, and catches sight of the man watching him. His head bobs in a gesture of respect as he leaves her side, forlorn expression tinged with determination, inwardly wondering how much the other man heard of his monologue.

"Be careful, Rick," he hears as the door clicks shut.

* * *

Be careful.

They had never been particularly careful.

It was much easier to plunge head first into the situation.

Maybe it was time to start caring about the consequences.

* * *

It is the first time in a long while that he has travelled in the elevator alone. The metal walls encase him in a cruel cage of emotion as he arrives with a dull 'ding'.

His journey across the barren bullpen is met with sympathetic stares that barely penetrate the thick barricades he has put up.

Her chair is empty.

The murder board holds none of her adrenaline-fuelled scrawls - only a police-issue photograph of the detective - his detective - under 'VICTIM'.

Her name glares out at him in stodgy white letters. He can feel the brand pulsing on his heart as his breath hitches.

Victim.

It's his fault.

It's her fault.

It's his fault.

* * *

Esposito's hand on his shoulder makes him turn, and he is led to Ryan's computer, the Hispanic detective strategically placing himself between Beckett's desk and Castle.

"Prints belong to a Jordan Rodgers," Ryan announces, selecting the file attached to the name and bringing up the photo. "Previous convictions for breaking and entering, two accounts of felony theft, and is known to be in association with more than one street gang."

"Sounds like our guy," Esposito nods. "Got a place of residence there?"

"She's a she, actually." The detective turns the screen round to show a picture of a young, twenty-something woman glaring at the camera. "And yeah-" he reads out the address as his partner scribbles it down on a piece of paper.

"You coming, Castle?" Ryan calls over his shoulder as he grabs his coat from the back of his chair. Castle doesn't reply. He stares at the screen, jaw dropped, eyes wide and full of wonder.

* * *

**2,281 words :O worth a review, surely?**

**Chapter 4 is ready - and as soon as I've done chapter 5, I'll post it :)**

**Also - please don't hate me. Cliffhangers are addictive.**

**Toodles.**


	4. Chapter 4

_With thanks to Prim-Rue94, APseudonimo, and theriseofthestorm (Tumblr) for their help and encouragement on this chapter. In particular to Sky, for prodding me repeatedly. _

_Your reviews keep me going, readers. You're all fantastic._

_I don't own anything you recognise._

* * *

Dark.

Cold.

Alone.

She can hear shuffling, a muffled cry of despair, a commanding bark. The noise scares her. She can't see it. Can't escape it.

So dark.

So cold.

So alone.

She is tired. She can feel the blissful void of sleep beckoning, and she reaches forward to take hold of slumber's claws.

Too dark.

Too cold.

Too alone.

When she wakes, it is quieter. Quieter, but no less terrifying. She wants to open her eyes. Instead all she can see is a figure in the distance, gliding, floating towards her with a familiar, gentle smile, arms outstretched to hold her as they had done for so many years, so long ago.

She wants to speak, but her jaw won't open. She wiggles her fingers in greeting as the woman pauses next to her side.

"Katie." The name, the voice, the embrace - everything about this woman is as familiar as her own name.

"Mom." The moment she thinks the word it springs from her lips. "Mom."

* * *

"She's dead?"

He takes a step back. This is not good. This is not what he had planned at all.

"Not - not quite - well, I wouldn't say _dead _sir - "

* * *

The dark, cold, lonely place is made so much more bearable by her mother's presence. They talk for hours, the comfortable hum of conversation warming her like a blanket.

She feels safe.

Johanna runs her hand through Katie's hair with a tender smile. "I'm so proud of you, Katie-bear."

"I'm glad," Katie whispers. Her fingers search for the soft skin of her mother's hand. "That's all I ever wanted."

"You've done so well," Johanna continues. "I'm sorry I had to leave. I never wanted to leave you alone."

A tear slides down Katie's cheek. Alone. Since her nineteenth birthday she had been alone, until she met Castle - but by then she had grown used to arriving to an empty apartment, having no personal contact with anyone outside work, being a one-woman-show. It was easier to be alone. You didn't have to care about anyone, because no one cared about you.

"It's time to let go, Katie."

"What?"

The tunnel behind her mother seems to grow and her voice starts to echo, becoming loud and booming as her features dissolve into nothingness. Katie reaches out but swipes thin air. She whimpers.

* * *

"No?" The deep voice takes on a sarcastic tone and he flinches.

"But I used the back-up - "

"Oh, you did?"

The face in front of him looks mildly interested, and he thanks the stars that they _had _a plan B.

"Yes." He nods vigorously. "The evidence is planted. They've already found the prints - it's only matter of time until the two of them meet."

There is a low chuckle, and he releases a high-pitched one of his own in relief.

"He doesn't know, does he?" His master is clearly delighting in his ability to play with their lives. "He doesn't realise that I still hold the reigns. Foolish boy," he sneers. "Thinking he was in control. No. He is a pawn. Just like the rest of them."

* * *

"Your friends are searching for the man who killed us, Katie. It's time to leave it alone."

"How - how long have I been here?" She ignores the command to stop chasing Bracken. The chase has become her life.

"No more than two weeks," Johanna soothes. She sees the instinctive panic in her daughter's eyes. A workaholic's eyes. The need to shut the investigation down rears in her stronger than ever and she fixes her child with a stern stare even as she fades away. "This case is consuming you, Katie. Listen to Castle. Stop hunting. Please."

"Mom." She is getting weaker, each word more of a struggle. "Mom, I've got to get him - for you. I'm doing this for you, to get justice because he - he took away the best thing in my life and - and I want to finish what you started - "

"Katie." She can barely hear Johanna's voice now. "Castle is the best thing in your life. He makes you happy – _truly _happy. This case is making you waste your life, and the way for me to be happy is for you to be happy, and that can only happen with the poor man you keep pushing away. But Katie - don't be too hard on him. Love is tough."

"What do you mean? What - why is love tough? What do you _mean_?"

"It's time to wake up, Katie." The lilting voice floats back to her. "It's time to wake up."

"Mom?"

"Wake up, Katie."

"Mom?"

"Wake up."

"Mom!"

* * *

The body in the bed begins to fight its restraints as her eyes edge open, only to slam shut against the bright white of the room, a hoarse cry tumbling from her parched lips, a forced mumble around the protruding tube.

"'om - 'om - 'ommy - "

Jim watches in grief-stricken silence. He battles with the urge to cover her mouth and stop the slew of _her name_, but also fights the instinct to wrap his child in his arms and cradle her until their trials are over, shielding her like he should have, loving her like he always had.

The beeping is driving him crazy. The machines have gone berserk in a bid to alert someone of the miracle - as far as he is concerned - happening right in front of him.

He is pushed politely out of the way to make room for the attending sister who dashes back and forth pressing buttons and checking charts, before stopping in a blur of hospital scrubs and serious smiles.

She confirms it, and his heart springs into a wild dance of sorrowful joy for what it will mean for her.

"She's waking up."

* * *

_So. Another sort of cliffhanger. I promise last chapter's will be answered soon, once chapter 6 is finished and polished. May take a little more time (which I apologise for) but we're starting to get to the nitty-gritty on the case - so I need to make sure I get all my details sorted._

_Would love to hear your thoughts on this, either in a review or a PM :)_

_Reviews get sneak peeks of the next chapter!_


	5. Chapter 5

_Here's chapter 5 - thank you for the reviews, and for your patience. I'm not the happiest bunny in the world with this one, but hey. It's a chapter._

_With humungous thanks to:  
Alex, for telling me to scrap bits and rewrite others  
Vicky, for constantly telling me that I'm evil - honestly: she even compared my writing to waxing - "painful, but with a hidden beauty"  
And twinsie Sky, for prodding me ge__ntly into writing, putting up with my slow laptop while watching the season premier, and generally squealing in the right places._

_Reviews are love, my friends. Plus a sneak peek *wink* (And yeah, I know. No one is really surprised by the reveal at the end, right?)_

_I don't own anything you recognise._

* * *

"Jordan?" Rick whispers. He takes a step nearer the screen, his hand subconsciously reaching towards the monitor. "Jordan?"

Confused thoughts drag through his mind like a freight train through snow as he searches the pixelated image for tiny details that he would recognise.

Doubt bubbles in him. Jordan's not exactly an unusual name, and neither is Rodgers - quite frankly, he's surprised she used that name -

There. The little birthmark on her right cheek, just above her jawline. It's there. It's her.

"My baby," he breathes, a sob of joy tinged with grief catching in his throat as he collapses into the nearest chair, head in hands and beaming smile on his face. "My baby - you're alive."

* * *

"NYPD - open up!" Esposito pounds his clenched fist on the door with enough force to pulverise a lesser piece of wood, his face registering no hint of discomfort. After a moment's pause, with no sign of response, he shares a pointed look with Ryan and launches an explosive kick at the handle, which splinters easily. The pair move slickly through the apartment, pieces held at the ready as they searched for their suspect.

"Clear," Ryan calls from the bathroom.

Esposito sighs, jamming his gun back in its holster. "Clear." Distraught disappointment is evident in his voice as they take one last look at the empty room. "Come on," Esposito marches from the room, unable to bear the frustration. "We'll ask the neighbours."

Eventually, with more than a little good-cop-bad-cop, they learn that Rodgers had been working in a small shop not far from the apartment, earning just enough to eat and pay the rent, determined to get out of the rut of unemployment and shady trading. Esposito doesn't wait to thank their informant, striding off in the direction of the subway, focussed only on hunting. Squeezed uncomfortably onto the small subway seats, the two detectives stay in a companionable silence. Involuntarily, his mind wanders to Beckett and what she would do if it was one of them in the hospital beds. He knows it will be hard for her to recover – but what about them? They've lost their leader, and it's going to take a lot to get them all back on their feet, bounding down the realms of possibilities, erasing the memories of Kate being the target of the crime.

If their leader hadn't been the victim, where would she go from here?

* * *

Castle spends the next half hour tossing his cell from one hand to another. Does he risk calling, even though he's been out of the loop for more than a year? Risk him finding out that Beckett is still alive, for what could possibly be a fruitless exercise?

Is it worth risking the lives of his family for news of his past?

* * *

His cell rings - Ryan. With the number of calls they had been exchanging lately, Castle was tempted to change his ringtone to something suitably ridiculous.

"We've got Rodgers."

Castle starts. It's odd hearing them refer to their suspect with his old surname.

"Are you still at the precinct?"

He nods, before remembering they can't see him. "Yeah. I am." Ryan tells him to stay put, before they arrive back to interrogate Rodgers and he hums his acknowledgment as his mind begins to wander once more.

* * *

"I haven't done anything!" He hears her before he sees her, and so does most of the precinct. She's more magnificent than he could have imagined - the only woman he knows to hold a candle to Kate Beckett. Despite her cuffed wrists and bleeding lip she struts out of the elevator with an air of confidence he still hasn't mastered after five years.

She isn't dignified with a response, instead being led roughly to the interrogation room where she collapses and stares knowingly at the observation suite, followed by Ryan and Esposito glaring at her so ferociously Castle's surprised she hasn't broken into pieces.

Protected by the sheet of one-way glass, Castle can take his time to look at her properly. She looks more gentle than her photograph would suggest, the sharp lines of her jaw softened by twinkling blue eyes.

Ryan storms to the table and slams a folder down in front of her, the crack echoing through the room. "Ms Rodgers, what is your connection to Kate Beckett?"

"Who?" There is no mistaking the confusion in her voice.

"Detective Kate Beckett," Ryan repeats, each syllable harsh, striking Castle painfully. "The woman you shot."

"I didn't shoot anybody!"

Ryan snorts disbelievingly. "So why did we find your fingerprints on shell casings above where she was shot?"

"What?" She is clearly astounded, and Castle has to reign in the urge to break into the room and set her free.

"Ms Rodgers, where were you on Tuesday between midday and four in the afternoon?" Esposito leans forward, an unnerving gleam in his eye.

"I - " she gulps, and Castle copies her sympathetically. "I think I was working - "

"You think?" The detective pounces on her words with glee. Annoyance flashes in her eyes and she bristles.

"Yes: 'I think', Detective. I don't consciously remember where I was at certain times on certain days in case I'm asked for an alibi!" she snaps. "Ask my manager - he should confirm it."

Esposito nods to Ryan who leaves the room to confirm it. It's the same routine they practice on every suspect - only this time, it's more personal, and their actions hold a threatening violence that is usually restrained. To them, she isn't worth the time of day. Guilty until proven innocent.

Silence reigns over the table. Rodgers drums her fingers anxiously on her knee and Rick feels the corners of his mouth twitch.

That was one of _her_ habits.

* * *

Ryan explodes back into the room, pen held aloft, triumphant expression on his face.

"Your manager says you took a break at 11, and didn't return until the next day. Care to explain?"

"What? My day off is Thursday - I didn't - I never - I wouldn't - " Her spluttering is cut off by a sneer from Esposito.

"Well, clearly you did - so, would you like to think again?"

"I - I swear I was working - "

* * *

"She was at the loft."

Castle has never been on the receiving end of a Team Beckett glare, and he's glad. It burns, and makes it instantly obvious why their suspects are so easily subdued. His outburst had shocked all three of the room's occupants, and he gulps as Ryan blinks at him.

"She was at the loft? Your loft?"

Castle nods, meeting Rodgers' baffled eyes and hoping his stare is strong enough to stop her from asking questions.

"Why?"

"She...was part of a college thing Alexis did," he improvises. "And the girls got close, and wanted to have a night in, watching movies, you know."

Esposito doesn't look convinced.

"And Alexis would confirm that?"

Damn. Damn. No, she wouldn't, of course she wouldn't - she'd never even heard of Jordan Rodgers. "Yes."

The detectives look slightly mollified, and for a moment Castle wonders if he should have played the indignant card, acting surprised that they didn't believe him.

"You're free to go, Ms Rodgers," they grudgingly announce. Castle barely hears it, instead focussing on the fantastically _not-dead_ features of the woman released.

It's her. It's actually her.

* * *

"Jordan?"

"Yes?" she answers warily, then frowns. "Wait – why aren't you calling me 'Ms Rodgers' like the rest of them?" Castle stops. Damn, he hadn't meant to make it that obvious that theirs was a different kind of relationship.

"Because – I know who you are," he stammers. Her frown deepens.

"Who I am?" she repeats slowly.

"Yes," Castle continues earnestly. "I – I know that your mother was killed, and that you never knew your father. I know - " he lowers his voice. "I know you know who I am. And I don't mean all the famous author rubbish. Who I really am."

Jordan nods hesitantly, blue eyes reflecting back at him almost like a mirror as they stare at each other across the corridor. "I know what you do. I know the connection – but I've left now. I finished last year. He paid me my last and found me my job."

"You left? Jordan, you never 'leave'. As long as he knows who you are, he's always in control."

"Why do you think I changed my name?" she puts in scathingly.

"Changed your-"

"I was a Cardinal, according to my birth certificate."

Castle looks momentarily bewildered. "So – why Rodgers?" Jordan shrugs.

"I like musicals. And Hammerstein just seemed too different."

"Castle!" A call from Esposito startles the pair and Rick automatically strides over to the detective's desk.

"'What's the matter?"

"Bro – we've got a lead. She's given us what we need." Both Esposito and Ryan look a mixture of pleased and bloodthirsty.

"But – her alibi-"

Kevin angles the screen towards him. The writer scans the information, taking in the figures, the names, the details of whoever had hurt his beloved Kate. There, in black and white, was the evidence, exactly what they needed; the tip of the iceberg they were searching for.

"Finances show that she receives a monthly income from an anonymous source alongside her wages from the shop - an income," Ryan adds with a flourish as he brings up another window. "That matches the exact amounts drawn from an account we have been able to trace back to the most recent Presidential campaigns. An account activated with a throw-away email address that was added to the subscriptions list for one particular Senator."

The three men share a look.

"Bracken."


End file.
